


Cat-Napped

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)



Series: AO3 FB Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 FB Challenge, Canon Compliant?, Cat-Sharing, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Presents, Cutesy, Developing Relationship, F/M, Happy Ending, Hoopson?, Long-Term Relationship(s), Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Office dates, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Texting, Toby's a sneaky little shit, passing notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:59:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter
Summary: AO3 July Roulette Challenge. Philip Anderson lives a fairly standard, not-quite-boring life (he knows Sherlock Holmes, how could his life POSSIBLY be boring?). Things get...interesting when he discovers a cat in his sitting-room, but he goes about his business as usual. The cat's not bothering him, and he doesn't particularly mind having it around. He is curious to know who it belongs to. The cat's name is Toby, and he belongs to a neighbour two down from Anderson. Once he starts exchanging notes with the owners, his life becomes much MUCH more interesting! And Toby may be indirectly responsible for getting Anderson hitched. At the VERY least he is implicitly guilty of it.





	Cat-Napped

**Author's Note:**

> So, as if I didn't have ENOUGH on my plate with Camp NaNo, and my first ever Supernatural-only fic (two separate incidents, FYI), I decided to take a spin on the roulette wheels and take a stab at this month's AO3 challenge on FB. This dinky one-shot is the result of five days' worth of work. The prompts are at the bottom.

* * *

The first time Philip Anderson came home to find a strange cat in his sitting-room, he was legitimately startled and thought it a cruel prank someone had decided to play on him, but the cat was friendly and followed him around for two days before disappearing the same way it had arrived: while he was at work. He had no idea who it belonged to, or if it was a street-stray that had somehow wandered in and stayed a while. This went on for several months, and Anderson began to look forward to going home at night, which was quite different from past behaviours.

He had divorced his wife several years ago, in 2012, following the death of Sherlock Holmes. His entire life had taken a sharp turn to the right and it had taken years to recover. But it had made him realize there were several things wrong with the way he lived his life. He had divorced his wife, dumped Sally Donovan (his decision, tah, not hers), and found a small place of his own. It had taken most of 2013 and half of 2014 for him to return to work, but he had managed to return to his job at The Met, forced to start from the bottom of the ladder due to the circumstances surrounding his departure the first time.

He kept tabs on Sherlock Holmes and how he was doing, talked with the detective occasionally, but he would never say they were friends. When he heard about the mess with a sister, he was just as shocked as everyone else. And then, like everything else, that scandal had blown over. He had few friends and no significant other, but that was fine. And now, well...apparently Anderson had a new pet. He started buying cat-food and other things and wondered if he was mad for feeling sad the nights the cat wasn’t waiting for him.

But tonight, as he fought the key into his door, work-bag over one shoulder and grocery sacks in both hands, he was hoping his feline friend might be in. He still, three months on, had no idea how the cat had gotten in the first time or continued to do so. Getting inside, he closed the door to avoid any escapees and moved towards the kitchen, turning on lights as he did so. As he was putting away the perishables, he heard a soft patter and a thud on the worktop. Looking over his shoulder, he chuckled.

“Oh, there you are! Hello, my handsome lad.” Anderson chuckled at the cat sitting on his countertop, “Hungry, are you?” All he got for that was a noise he had learned was cat-speak for “Of course I am, feed me!”

“Oh, very well, you pushy thing. But first, I have to put this all away.” Shaking his head, he finished what he was doing. “I swear if you knock any of it off the counter to spite me.” But instead of messing with his groceries, the cat came down and wound between his feet, making pitiful little noises and biting at his trousers until he took the not-so-subtle hints and laid down a bowl of food for it. That was when he noticed the collar. It was the first time he’d seen one on the cat, and he located the tag. There was a phone number on the back and a name on the front.

“Ah, so you’re Toby, are you?” He chuckled and rubbed the cat behind the ears. “You look like a Toby.”  Leaving Toby to his own devices, Anderson fixed dinner for himself, which he ate in front of the telly while watching a match. Toby didn’t seem to mind football much, content to sit on the couch behind his head and watch from that vantage point. As he had in the past, Anderson fell asleep on the couch with Toby curled up on his chest. Any sleep these days was a blessing, and anything that came in after six in the morning was a boon. And there was nothing quite like a happy, purring cat on your chest to make the world seem a bit less awful.

The awful came calling at half-five, and Anderson didn’t bother with a shower, just got clean clothes (the clothes he was wearing had already seen two or three days of wear already),  grabbed his work-bag, coat, and keys, and gave Toby a quick ruffle.

“Duty calls. Some poor sod’s got himself offed over in Limehouse, guess they found ‘im in the Marina.” He said in response to the sleepy, indignant “brrrm” he got out of his pet-by-acquisition. He never enjoyed those particular calls, the bodies were always so...graphic. And making sense of a reasonable cause-of-death was damn near impossible. Unless, of course, you happened to be Sherlock Holmes, which Anderson was _not_. And he was willing to bet good money Sherlock would show up tonight.

The drive from his place in Islington to Limehouse Basin took almost thirty minutes, his only consolation was that, when this was all over, he got to go back home to Toby and sleep. It was a gruesome and graphic as he’d anticipated, Sherlock did make an appearance, a sleep-deprived John Watson in tow, and once the genius had done his thing, effectively making everyone else on-scene look and feel like incompetent idiots, they were left to put the pieces together themselves.

“What did you say it was, Anderson?”

“Um, looked like some blunt-force trauma to the head and face. Before he died.”

“And John?”

“If this poor bastard wasn’t alive when they dumped him, he was lucky.” John stifled a yawn, arms tight across his chest, “It’s freezing out here, the sun’s barely up, and I haven’t slept in two weeks. Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, you boys can go.” This was from Lestrade, who was double-checking his notes. “Sherlock?”

“You need smarter people, Lestrade. Anderson solved it no problem, and John, of course. But no one else knew what they were looking at.”

“It’s five in the morning, how many people does he really think are actually functioning this early?” John muttered, shooting a look at Sherlock that Anderson was familiar with. Fond yet exasperated.

“Around here?” Anderson looked around. The four of them were probably the most alert of the whole lot.

“Well, he didn’t call _us_ idiots, did he?”

“Nope. Lucky us?”

“John!”

“Coming!” John sighed, “Jesus. See you ‘round, Anderson.”

“Doctor Watson.” He just watched the odd couple go on their way, John berating Sherlock as usual.

“Anderson, get the body to Saint Bart’s. Hooper will take it first thing.”

“Yes, sir.” Anderson nodded to acknowledge his boss’s orders. “Do they know we’re coming?”

“Hooper’s not in at the moment, but they’ll take the body now.”

“Copy that, sir.” Sighing, Anderson summoned a few of his people and they got the body handed off to the coroner. Anderson followed them to Saint Bart’s to ensure the delivery of the body to the morgue. Paperwork could wait until it was a more decent hour. Once the deceased was in the care of the morgue, and awaiting Doctor Hooper’s tender attentions later, Anderson went home and went to bed. Toby was happy to share a pillow with him, and he slept until a more reasonable hour, getting up at ten and reporting to his desk by eleven. He did paperwork most of that day, didn’t get home until nearly three no thanks to a particularly violent triple murder down in Richmond, saw Sherlock and John at least twice beyond that early-morning call to Limehouse Basin, and the next few days were practically rinse-repeat of the same routine. That was fine.

\--- 

As the months stacked up, Anderson looked forward to spending time with Toby more and more, wondering as always who he belonged to and if they ever missed their nomadic cat. The first time he pinned a note to the tabby’s collar was when he had to buy Toby a new one. He’d lost his, how and when was uncertain, but he was a little roughed up and spent a whole two weeks with Anderson after showing up on his doorstep in the middle of a torrential rain. He had to take Toby to a veterinary surgeon and put him in a silly-looking “cone of shame” to keep him from biting the stitches they had to administer, and he tricked the grumpy cat into taking pain medication by hiding it in bits of cheese. It took two weeks before Anderson felt comfortable letting him go, and when he did, he pinned a note to Toby’s brand new collar that read

_**“Your cat has been visiting me and staying over every few days for almost nine months. I just wanted you to know that he’s been staying at mine these past two weeks after he got into...something. Lost his collar, so I bought him a new one. He’s been to the vet, I paid for his care. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll let him keep visiting, he’s delightful company.”** _

Three days later, Toby returned with another note attached to his collar that read as follows:

 _ **“I’m sorry he’s forced himself on you, that’s such a rude thing to do! Thank you so much for taking care of him, I thought maybe he’d got himself lost or even offed. I couldn’t bear it, but now I know where he goes. Thank you. – Your neighbour in 121”** _ And so began a back-and-forth of handwritten notes between Anderson and his neighbour at the end of the row. He lived in 123 Bunning Way, Toby’s owner lived two down from him.

 

Come Christmas, Anderson decorated for the holiday, staying away from anything potentially breakable. Lights, tinsel, and greenery garlands were about as much as he wanted to put up, Toby would most likely demolish a tree. Over the months, he had learned a few things about his neighbour. He may not be as intelligent as Sherlock, but he was clever, and he knew that Toby’s owner was female, single and shy of dating after a humiliating incident in which she had been forced under duress to admit that she loved someone very close to her. They were still friends, she promised, but she wasn’t interested in more than that, if anything.

 _ **“Then what does that makes us? – 123.”**_ He sent back when she said as much in a note.

 _ **“I’m not sure. But you couldn’t possibly want me. – 121.”**_ Came back. Which had led him to ask why she thought that, and got him a surprising answer:

 _ **“Because I was involved with Sherlock Holmes. Still am, actually. – 121.”**_ Oh? Well, he didn’t see how that was a problem, he was up to his eyeballs in involvement with Baker Street himself. Anderson sent back a very simple, very short

 _ **“So am I. – 123”**_ and let them make the next move. He _really_ wanted to meet 121, whoever she was. If she had any sort of involvement with Sherlock Holmes, they already had something in common! There was Toby, of course, who’d started this whole mess, and he was sure there were other things they could find to talk about.

Christmas Eve found Anderson working a justifiable homicide, a simple open-and-shut case they didn’t even really need Baker Street to solve it, but feeling magnanimous, Lestrade called for the boys. They came, they saw, Sherlock laid it out for them, praised Anderson and John in his odd way, and off they went again. But as he swept out of the room, that ridiculous coat of his flaring like some superhero’s cape, Sherlock stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Anderson?”

“What?”

“Have you convinced your penpal girlfriend to commit to a real date yet?”

“Sorry?” Where had _that_ come from? And how on earth did he know? He hadn’t spoken of that to...well, anyone besides Lestrade, and surely he wouldn’t have said?

“Did you say something to him?”

“Nope. None of my business, is it? I think it’s kind of adorable, though. How long have you two been trading notes and cat-sharing?”

“Three months.” God help him, he was blushing.

“And you’ve cared for this cat in this time?”

“Oh, for longer than that.” He cleared his throat. “It started when I had to buy Toby a new collar, see? And it just sort of...kept going. But he’d been coming to mine a few times a week and stay a few days for nine months prior. I just didn’t know who he belonged to.”

“And you still don’t, I take it?” Sherlock was smiling, but it wasn’t that sneering smile he wore when he knew he had you against a wall and wanted to watch you squirm. It was an open, more honest smile, he got it when he was speaking of John’s daughter Rosie.

“I don’t know her name, but I’ve a decent idea of what she does for her work.” He eyed up the tall detective he had once seen as a rival. “Says she knows _you_ actually, and I can’t for the life of me think of anyone I know who might know you at all.”

“Hmm. That’s fascinating. And you like her?”

“I’ve never even seen her face, I don’t know what she looks like.”

“Well, you know, you could always invite her to dinner.”

“What if she says no?”

“Wait a few weeks and try again. Figure out what it takes to get her to say yes.” That was from John, who shrugged, “If you need any pointers, Anderson, I spent more time than I care to think in the dating pool.  Not always successfully, but I learned a thing or two.”

“Oh. Well, um...thank you, Doctor Watson.” That was unusually kind of him. Of both of them, actually. And about three weeks ago, she had actually given him her number. They had been texting at nearly all hours, neither of them kept typical work hours. And, as if by magic, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was her. It was a simple, short text from her while she was at work.

 

**Text to 123 (21:37)**

**Happy Christmas from The Dungeon, Pip. Hope yours is going better than mine. – Getty**

**Text to 121 (21:38)**

**I’m not sure how a justifiable homicide on Christmas Eve is any happier or better than whatever you have on the docket. But I appreciate the sentiment all the same. – Pip**

He sent off that reply and pocketed his phone again. She worked for one of the morgues in town, he’d never bothered to find out which, and they had started calling it The Dungeon. Also, they called each other Getty and Pip. That was one of the only things about her he had actually asked to know. Not her last name, just her first name. And she had asked in turn. Her name, she’d admitted, was Margaret, but she hated the way it sounded, especially since it had usually been thrown at her in reprimand as a child and in cruel jest during secondary and university. But Anderson thought it was a beautiful name and remembered very fondly a friend of his mother’s he had always called Aunt Getty, so he had started calling _her_ Getty. And she called him Pip, which was just fine with him. Most people just called him “Anderson”, or “Philip”.

“Well, have a happy Christmas, Anderson. See you in the New Year!” Watson called cheerfully as the pair left together, waving over his shoulder. Once they were gone, Lestrade looked at him, his expression open and a little sad.

“D’you think you will, Anderson?”

“I’m not feeling up to getting myself shot down this Christmas. I’ll spend it alone with Toby and we’ll make a proper bachelor’s holiday of it.” He sighed and looked at the body of an estranged husband of four who had thought it was a good idea, in a drug-and-alcohol fuelled haze, to go to his ex-wife’s house and break in. Their youngest son, age 27 and home on leave from the Army, had shot him in self-defence after the husband came at him with a six-inch butcher’s knife. A check into the man’s records had revealed a whole load of goodies and a couple of restraining orders. Even if he’d survived, somehow, he wouldn’t have been a free man another day of his miserable life.

“Well, at any rate, we’d better get this poor sod to Saint Bart’s. I wager Doctor Hooper’s in her office.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. If I’m bringing her another dead body to hack up, I’d better bring a peace offering, too.” He frowned, thinking of Molly Hooper, specialist registrar and head pathologist at Saint Bart’s morgue. He wouldn’t say they were friends, exactly, but whenever they had a body to cart off, Bart’s usually got it and Anderson was almost always the one doing the delivering. Lestrade kept sending him over there. It had taken two months before he got brave enough to talk to her beyond their brief exchanges and had managed to talk her into a few coffee-dates and one dinner that hadn’t ended in disaster. He’d gotten a case, she’d gotten a body, and they’d gone their separate ways with rueful smiles and apologies for work getting in the way. But they both worked similar jobs and it was just kind of...normal.

“Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and Molly Hooper were dating.”

“Is it dating if we’ve never _had_ a proper date? Or kissed? Or gone home together?”

“Do you text each other? Talk to each other outside of work?”

“Try to, sir.”

“Then yeah, I think that counts.” Lestrade’s smiled was a little troubling, “You get on your way to Bart’s, tell Molly Happy Christmas.”

“Yeah, I will, sir. Good night.” Anderson sighed and went off to get on his way. He found Molly Hooper’s number in his contacts and fired off a quick text.

 

**Text to M. Hooper (21:45)**

**Have you eaten yet? It’s too late for most people, but I can bring something over. – P. Anderson**

**Text to P. Anderson (21:46)**

**I’m locked up in my office with a backlog like you wouldn’t believe and no end in sight. – M. Hooper**

**Text to M. Hooper (21:48)**

**I’m a lead forensics specialist, sweetheart. Backlog is a way of life. – P. Anderson**

**Text to M. Hooper (21:48)**

**What can I do to brighten up your Christmas Eve? – P. Anderson**

**Text to P. Anderson (21:50)**

**Bring coffee and Indian and we’ll commiserate. – M. Hooper**

The specific request made him chuckle and he looked up one of the curry parlours he knew would still be open this late. He checked his time and placed an order with The Coriander on Aldgate to be picked up at 10:30. That would give him time to fight late traffic, get to the City of London, stop by Third Shift Coffee before he picked up the food, and get to Saint Bart’s with time to spare. Reports could wait until the day after Boxing Day, he was taking a few days for himself.

“Plans for the night, Anderson?” Lestrade asked with a grin as he got off the phone with the curry parlour.

“Is it a dinner date if it’s in her office?”

“Yep.” Lestrade’s grin was infectious, “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve done the same thing with Sherlock’s brother.” Anderson remembered that bit of the disaster and how it had developed into something that had been a pleasure to watch. He knew his boss had always been a bit sweet on Sherlock’s mysterious, intimidating older brother, who had a predictable and annoying habit of popping up without warning and kind of looming in the background, scaring people who didn’t know any better. And when Sherlock had asked him in the aftermath of the East Wind Incident (that’s what everyone called it for lack of a better name) to look after his brother for him, echoing a similar plea his brother had often made to John, Lestrade had undertaken the effort with admirable dedication.

“How’s he doing?”

“Busy, as usual. Still won’t tell me things.”

“One of those “if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you” kind of things, then?”

“Oh, yeah.” That expression was memorable. Anderson chuckled and pocketed his phone.

“Well, good night, sir. Happy Christmas.”

“See you on Tuesday, Anderson. Have a good night.”

“I plan to, sir.” He couldn’t help it. Dead bodies was business as usual. A late-night dinner-date with Molly Hooper in her little office down in the morgue was kind of just a bonus at this point. He hadn’t anticipated getting to see her at all during the holidays, they were usually too busy to do more than pass texts. He’d wished his neighbour a happy Christmas yesterday, asking if she had any plans, which she hadn’t. A shame, really. Too bad he still had no idea who she was. Well, that was okay. Getting on his way, he made his stops before getting to the hospital.

When he walked through the door of Third Shift Coffee kicking snow off his boots and cursing the cold, the blast of warm air hit him full in the face, with the smell of coffee, and a blend of scents he could only define as “Christmas”.

“Hey! P.A.! Been a while, mate!” The barista behind the register gave his usual, boisterous greeting, “Working another late one, then?”

“Hey, Bentley.” He waved to the cheerful man behind the counter. Bentley Morrigan had retired from the force back in 2013 after a forty-year career with The Met, deciding it was time to spend some time with the living for a change and give his family the attention they hadn’t gotten while he was at work. Not that any of them had ever complained, though, they all knew what it meant to be family to a copper. Especially one in Homicide like Morrigan had been. Morrigan was sixty-five, looked five years younger, and was in better shape than anyone else in the division. Anderson was pretty sure the man could still make a take-down look like child’s play if he wanted to.

“What’ll it be tonight, kiddo?” Morrigan asked with a grin as he reached the counter. The place was kind of empty right now, but there were a few regulars scattered around the cafe, most of them people Anderson worked with. Between shifts or off-shift, depending on what their schedules looked like. He waved to a couple he recognized right off.

“I’ve been ordered to bring Indian and coffee to Saint Bart’s, or else.”

“Ooh.” Morrigan’s smile turned into a smirk and he chuckled, “What’d you do this time?”

“Might’ve added another body to her roster.” He shrugged bashfully, “Not my fault, y’know?”

“Guess that means you’re off to The Coriander next, then?”

“Yep.”

“That’ll be your Special, then. Two Specials, coming right up!” Morrigan tossed him a wink and turned to fill the order for him.

“So, what _exactly_ did you send Hooper that she’s demanding Indian and The Special?”

“Might’ve sent in a bloke with the back of his skull missing.”

“Oof.” Morrigan looked sorry about that. “What was it?”

“Justifiable homicide. Should’ve seen this blokes records, Chief, it was pretty awful.” He shrugged. “Also, I think I’m still on the hook for the body I sent her two weeks ago that had been sitting in an eddy for the month prior.”

“Was that the missing-persons from Somerset and the poor sod ended up fish-bait?”

“That’s a nice way to put it!”

“I am so sorry. Well, you know what they say, son. Christmas is a time for miracles.” Morrigan smiled and passed a drink-carrier across to him, “Say hi to Doctor Hooper for me.”

“Yeah, I will. Have a good night, Chief.” He took the carrier and waved as he left again. One more stop and then it was a game of wait-for-it to find parking by the hospital. He managed to snag a spot by the Ambulance Station on West Smithfield and grabbed his work-bag, the food, and the drink-carrier, locked up his car, and headed into the hospital. When he got to the morgue, he saw the body-bag sitting on the gurney and made a face at it.

“You can just wait your turn, you miserable bastard.” He muttered. It was dark in the morgue, but it didn’t make him uneasy. He handled dead bodies for a living, walking through a room that was more or less full of them wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever done. He saw the light on that indicated Hooper’s office. Of course, she was in. Cranky and starving, if he had to guess. He could fix that. A soft sound from under one of the empty gurneys got his attention and he went to investigate. A bit of ambient light fell on a pair of eyes and Anderson raised an eyebrow. Too big to be rats. The bastard in the body-bag hadn’t come in with any pets, so...what was a cat doing in here?

“Well, what on earth are you doing in here? Come on out of there.” He held out one hand to the animal, which came right out. Anderson’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized the cat who emerged.

“Oh my god. Toby!” It _was_ Toby. “What are you doing here, then? Everything okay, lad?” He stroked the cat’s head, hoping to god nothing had happened to his neighbour. Toby just trilled and got up on his hind legs to rub against Anderson’s hand. Shuffling his load, Anderson scooped Toby into the crook of one arm and got up carefully, heading for the open door of Hooper’s office. He knocked with one foot, his arms were full.

“Oy.”

“Oh!” She looked up, startled by his arrival, “Oh, Philip! Hi!”

“Hi, Molly.” He shuffled into the office and kicked the door closed, “Found this mister sneaking around in the morgue, any idea who he belongs to?”

“Toby!” Molly looked at the cat content in his grip, “Oh, you brat! What were you doing out there? I’m so sorry, Philip, I brought him in with me today.”

“Oh?” He set down his load and dropped Toby on the couch. “Is...Is Toby _your_ cat, then?”

“Yeah.” She rummaged through the bags he’d brought in, her eyes lighting up as she saw his offerings, “Oh, God bless you! You went to Third Shift Coffee and The Coriander!” Pieces of a puzzle that had nagged at him for almost a full year slotted into place and he felt like a bit of an idiot. The obvious had been staring him in the face and he’d never seen it for what it was.

“Oh, Sherlock will never let me hear the end of it!” He pressed one hand to his forehead, “He’s right, y’know?”

“About what?” Molly looked up at him, puzzled.

“How long have we known each other?”

“Since 2011?”

“Right. And, um, how long have we been doing _this_?” Meaning the late-night dinners in her office after a long, thankless day of work.

“About as long. Why?”

“You’re not going to believe this, but Toby’s been staying over at mine for the last year every time he goes off missing.”

“That was you?!”

“Yeah. Sorry?”

“Oh my god! That was _you_! I thought it was someone else! I never thought...” She stopped mid-sentence and turned bright red. It was kind of adorable to watch her get all flustered. “Oh my god. I’m such an _idiot_!”

“We’re both idiots, in that case.” He smiled and went around the desk, “You know he’s going to gloat about this for _months_.”

“So is everyone else who’s watched us fawn over each other like love-sick strangers! Pip, you...”

“Don’t.” He took her hand even as the nickname slipped out. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“But it’s _true_!”

“Not it’s not, and you know it.” He smiled, absolutely fine with knowing that Getty and Molly Hooper were the same person. He looked over at Toby, who sat on the cluttered desk looking _very_ pleased with himself. “This is all your fault, you fuzzy tyrant. I hope you know that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was just as clueless as you were. We rarely see each other enough for it to make a difference.”

“But I’ve slept at your house! You’ve slept at _mine_! How come we never...”

“Molly, don’t. It’s fine. It’s more than fine.”

“I’m a complete idiot and when he finds out about this, Sherlock is never going to let either of us live this down.”

“We are both idiots, that’s acknowledged, but we’re each other’s idiots.” Anderson reached out and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Listen. It’s been a long day, and a longer week, for both of us. Why don’t you go put Mr Henderson in cold-storage and I’ll take you home?” He could see she was exhausted and wanting out.

“Home?”

“Got the next three days to myself. I’d love some company.”

“Absolutely!” Her smile was sweet and sincere, “I think Mr Henderson and his pals can wait until Tuesday, don’t you?”

“They’re going to have to!” He chuckled and collected their things for going home. Dinner and coffee would be had at home. Coffee en-route, dinner at home. And Anderson was pretty sure he still had a bottle of wine around somewhere. While Molly went to stash the new arrivals (there were three of them, only one was Anderson’s), he shut down her computer for her. There was a sense of satisfaction locking the door to her office after shutting off the lights, and when the heavy doors of the morgue clanged shut behind them, it was the sound of three days of freedom ahead.

The drive from Saint Bart’s to their flats took approximately fifteen minutes, during which time Molly sang along with the radio and Toby slept on the dashboard. When they got home, Anderson thought of the small box he’d been carrying around for a week, had purchased on a whim a month ago, and wondered if it was cliché to give it to her on Christmas Eve. Maybe he’d give it to her tomorrow? Or wait until New Year’s? They ate their takeaway at the little table in the dining room/lounge, stealing bits of food from each other’s plates and careless caresses. A whole bottle of wine and half a second was consumed, and he carried a giggly, drunk Molly Hooper upstairs after making sure his door was locked and the empty containers had been binned and leftovers properly stashed in the fridge. Toby was content to play with the life-size catnip mouse Anderson gave him for Christmas, leaving them to their own devices. The only source of light in the place was the fairy-lights and the range-light in the kitchen turned to the “nite” setting.

“Shower, and bed. Come on, you.” He set her on her feet and helped her undress.          

“Oh, god bless hot water!” She moaned, muffled against his shoulder. “I feel disgusting.”

“You smell like work. We both do. Come on, or do I have to carry you?” He dumped their clothes in the hamper and watched her take two stumbling steps and chuckled when she swayed. “Oh, you silly, drunk girl. Molly Hooper is a lightweight.”

“Am _not_!” She said, indignant and very drunk. “I am _fine_!”

“Mhm.” He caught her and scooped her off her feet. He wasn’t exactly sober, but he was _more_ sober than Molly. He’d have to remember that good wine did the trick and keep her to only a glass or two instead of the four she had consumed tonight.

After an efficient, relaxing shower, Anderson took Molly to bed. It was a familiar routine, moving around each other in the bathroom as they dried off and located pyjamas. Molly found an old tee-shirt and boxers, made do with those while Anderson settled on a pair of pyjama bottoms. It was warm enough in the flat he didn’t feel the need for more than that. After finishing their nightly routines, it was into bed. They had never needed more than a double. This was not the first time he and Molly had slept together, by any stretch of the imagination, and settling in didn’t take long at all. Switching off the bedside lamp, Anderson reflected on the evening and smiled. It had been a good night, and a far better Christmas Eve than he’d initially been looking forward to. Well, discounting that case, but there was nothing for that, was there?

“Good night, Molly.” He whispered in the dark.

“Good night, Pip.” She murmured, “Thank you.” He smiled as she rolled over and decided to cuddle. He was absolutely okay with that. 

Molly really was a very pretty girl, beautiful even. This was a woman who loved action flicks like The Avengers and Star Wars and Jurassic Park, and cried during The Notebook and Marley & Me, and secretly loved the campiness of The Hitchiker's Guide To The Galaxy. Who liked early-morning cuddling after a late night and four hours of sleep after stumbling home at three in the morning after a hellish day at work. Who booed when Manchester United won another game because the refs were biased. Who liked cheesy eighties music and classic rock and dancing in her socks on Saturday mornings while making breakfast in their tiny kitchens with Aerosmith blasting on the media-player speakers. Who left little notes for Anderson in the strangest places. Tucked into the pocket of his coat, snuck into his badge-case, hidden at the bottom of his work-bag or in his lunch-bag on the morning she fixed him lunch to take with him. Usually something that didn’t need refrigeration or heating up, nine times out of ten he was on a scene and didn’t have access to that kind of thing. Who called him in tears the first time he’d sent her flowers just because and admitted that no one had ever done something like that for her, and she loved flowers and now he sent her something every week just to brighten up her office and her day. She was kind, she was funny, but if you angered her she was not afraid to stand up to you and take you to task for it. She made her living carving up dead bodies, either you respected her or god help you if you ended up on one of her tables. 

It was quiet that night, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be disturbed by anything that had to do with work until Tuesday was glorious. Molly might not be that lucky, but he didn’t mind whatever time they did get together. He would take the opportunity to be with her, just the two of them, until she had to go back to work.

The next morning, they slept in until Toby decided his humans had wasted enough time and demanded to be fed.

“Alright, alright, you pushy little brat.” Anderson shoved Toby unceremoniously off the bed, which got an indignant squawk when he hit the floor.

“Aw, he didn’t do anything to deserve _that_ , did he?” Molly just laughed as she kicked off the covers, “Come on, I’ll make breakfast.”

“Don’t you always?” He watched her leave the bedroom with one of his hoodies, “That’s _mine_ , y’know.”

“What about it?” She teased as she headed downstairs. He chuckled and decided to follow her. But before he went downstairs, he found the ring he’d gotten for Molly. As he stuffed it into a pocket, his phone chimed. It couldn’t be work, he’d already switched with someone else to cover for him until the 27th and his schedule was wide open until then. Wondering who it was, and thinking it might be his mother or grandmother, before realizing they would have called and not sent a text, he looked at the screen. It was a text, alright, from...Sherlock? What on earth did _he_ want? And on Christmas Day?

“This ought to be good.” He swiped into the message and looked at it carefully as he went to the bathroom to do business and brush his teeth.

 

**Text from SH (sent: 8.30)**

**If you’re wondering what to do about that ring you’ve been carrying around for the last month, you might as well just give it to her today. – SH**

 

**Text to SH (sent: 8.30)**

**I think I know how you got this number, you’ve had it for months. But how the hell did you know about the ring? – Anderson**

He wasn’t too surprised the observant detective had found out about the ring, but he really did want to know how he’d found out about it.

**Text from SH (sent: 8.33)**

**It’s not that hard to deduce. You’ve been friends with Molly for five years, and dating her for almost as long. You’ve been as good for her as she has been for you. – SH**

**She deserves someone who can be there for her in the ways that matter the most. Who can handle her at her absolute worst and still respect her in the morning. Someone who can be there for her when the world is against her and it’s just the two of you against the rest of the world. – SH**

Anderson raised an eyebrow, this was nothing short of a confession from Sherlock. He thought of something and smiled, tapping out a quick reply.

 

 

**Text to SH (sent: 8.34)**

**You think she needs her own John Watson? – Anderson**

**You have your own, and you think she deserves one for herself? – Anderson**

**Text from SH (sent 8.35)**

**Just take care of Molly. She deserves the best. And you...you’re a better man than I could ever be. – SH**

**Text to SH (sent: 8.35)**

**Are you giving me permission to ask her? – Anderson**

Not that he _needed_ permission from someone like Sherlock Holmes, of course. The response was a bit late coming, but it didn’t matter. To either of them.

 

**Text from SH (sent: 8.40)**

**You don’t need my permission. – SH**

**Ask her, please. You deserve to be happy, as much as she does. And really, you make each other very happy. – SH**

Shaking his head, he grabbed a hoodie and went downstairs, the ring safe in his pocket. As he reached the kitchen, where Molly was fixing breakfast and singing along with the radio, his phone buzzed again.

 

**Text from JW (sent 8.42)**

**Keep us informed! Good luck, mate, you’ve got a stellar girl! – JW**

It was from John. He chuckled and pocketed his phone, trading it for the ring. Time to put his heart on the line. Sneaking up behind Molly, he put his arms around her from behind and grinned as she made a soft noise of alarm and jumped a bit.

“Oh, sorry. Did I startle you?”

“Pip, that’s mean!” She scolded, not really meaning any of it.

“I made sure you didn’t have anything in your hands, I think that’s really quite thoughtful.”

“Oh, you’re impossible! What am I supposed to do with you, Philip Anderson?” She turned on him, a five-foot-two bundle of cheerful energy and exasperation. Ah, she’d given him the perfect opening!

“Well, I’ve a few ideas about that.” He reached behind her and carefully moved what was on the range off of the hot cook-top so it wouldn’t burn and leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, working down for a proper Christmas Morning kiss, taking care to move her away from the hot cook-top.

“What are you doing?”

“Making the most of Christmas Morning.” He smiled and kept her from saying anything else by shutting her up with a kiss. He might be rubbish at dating, and rubbish at romance in general, but he knew how to kiss. And, if a woman was willing, how to keep her happy. Molly had been a more than willing recipient of Anderson’s honest efforts.

“You’re up to something, aren’t you?” She gave him a long, calculating look, “I know that look, Philip Anderson. What on earth are you thinking?”

“I’ve got something for you, Getty. Not much, just a small something.” He reached for the ring in his pocket, “I was thinking when I could give it to you, if I’d better wait, but, well...”

“Oh my god.” She saw the box and stilled, “Oh, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did. Please, Molly, can I spend the rest of our lives together making you happy? Please?”

“Oh, Pip! It’s...beautiful! Oh, it’s lovely!” She took the box from his shaking fingers, damn nerves, and looked at it before looking down at him. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually gone down on one knee or if his stupid body had just kind of lost the ability to hold him upright any longer.

“Please, Molly?”

“Oh, my god! Yes! Of course, absolutely! Yes!” She let him fit the ring. He’d done some sneaky research and gotten her size before going shopping, so he knew it would fit. And it did. It wasn’t anything flashy or gaudy, Molly wasn’t that kind of girl. It was something she could wear at work if she wanted to, it was a simple band of yellow gold with five diamonds in bezel settings, embedded in the band itself and almost completely smooth. Wouldn’t catch on anything like clothes or gear, nice and subtle but still obvious enough if she wanted to show it off.

“Oh, it’s _beautiful_!”

“I thought you might like it.” He smiled as she admired the ring, and wondered how much time would be wasted during the day just staring at it. Molly looked at him, eyes bright and open, and dragged him back to his feet to kiss him hard enough he almost forgot to breathe.

Breakfast, when they finally got around to it, was delicious and he suspected it had more than a bit to do with being in such a good mood. Anderson was quite pleased with himself and was very much looking forward not only to the rest of his brief holiday, but the future. He’d taken a risk, taken a chance, and had been rewarded for his efforts.

\--

Six months later, Anderson and Molly exchanged vows in a very small civil ceremony at Chelsea Old Town Hall with Anderson’s mother and grandmother, Baker Street (Mrs Hudson offered to babysit so the boys didn’t have to worry about Rosie), and Mycroft and Lestrade in attendance. They didn’t invite anyone else, those six people were more than enough for the purpose. But they didn’t _need_ to invite anyone else, the people who came were the people who mattered. And that...was enough.

It was the first day of the rest of their lives together, a whole future ahead of them, and for once in his life, Philip Anderson felt content. He had a good job, a beautiful, feisty wife, a few close friends, and they shared a tiny one bedroom flat in Islington with their cat named Toby. Who was more or less directly responsible for them getting together as more than friends. At the very least for getting them to do something about it!

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My prompts for AO3 July Roulette Challenge were as follows:  
> Fandom: Current Fandom: Sherlock  
> Pairing: Rare Paring: Molly Hooper/Anderson  
> Setting: Canon Compliant: Post-S4?


End file.
